


baptismal

by banjjakz



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Apprentice (The Arcana), M/M, Multi, Nipple Play, Other, POV Second Person, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bathing together, you guys take a bath together hehehe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakz/pseuds/banjjakz
Summary: “Muriel…”You don’t know how to express the almost unearthly urge you feel to just care for him, wholly and completely. How is one to adequately communicate this?Hello, we’ve known each other for less than a fortnight. Do you mind if I suddenly fall all over myself in pursuit of your general comfort and happiness? Hello, you’re obviously not keen on overt displays of affection, so please allow me to wax poetic about everything I find endearing about you. Hello, I’m almost positive that you are in love with my best friend and mentor. Let me fall in love with you as well. Just to spice things up.“Let’s take a bath,” you say instead.





	baptismal

**Author's Note:**

> yep...this is the bath scene we were so grievously robbed of.....swiped from right under our noses........  
> (this takes place in book 9 of muri's route!)  
> gender neutral apprentice with no pronouns/parts specified for all your reader-insert needs!^^  
> [rated M for nudity, light petting, and suggestive themes]

The farther south you journey, the colder it gets.

Much to your chagrin, you are the only one out of your party of three (three and a half? Four? Does Inanna contribute to the head count?) that seems to be especially affected by the dwindling temperature. Morga is perpetually wrapped up in layers of fur and cloth and long, strikingly pale locks of blonde hair that to fathom the frost even touching her is an impossible task; Inanna’s got a hide full of fur thicker than anything you’ve ever felt on an animal before; and Muriel…

Well.

He’s told you before that the cold doesn’t bother him. How could it, you wonder, with all that muscle and body heat working in his favor. Be this as it may, you still worry for him; you can’t help it. The two of you have spent together roughly a week’s time total, and yet this strange desire to care for Muriel refuses to leave you alone. It rears its head with such undeniable stubbornness that you must wonder where the conviction came from in the first place. Not for the first time, you mull over the possibility that he’s from your past. 

The path underfoot is smooth and even as the vibrant green shrubbery of whatever forest you’re currently traipsing through benevolently lends itself to your passage. You cast a sideways glance to Muriel who sits atop his own steed, gently thumbing the worn reins between his fingers. It never fails to strike you how much attention he pays to the little details of things, be it the smell of a flower, the threading of a quilt, or the fraying leather of a horse’s reins. His big, boxy hands handle it so delicately one would think he’s afraid he might break it clean in half.

(You know that this is exactly what he’s thinking, and this is also why he handles you in much the same way.)

Apart from mooning very obviously, very longingly at his (admittedly very attractive) fingers, you also notice the thick layer of grime that coats the underside of his nails. Your party has been traveling for days on end, in pursuit of a magical being able to move far faster than any mortal. There isn’t really much time for the powdering of noses.

“Hey,” you call, taking care not to startle him. “How’re you holding up?”

You’ve noticed (with pride) that he’s getting better at handling these types of questions. What once was ill-conceived deflection - or even downright refusal to answer - has grown into...not exactly forthrightness in the traditional sense, but it is as honest as Muriel is willing to be outside the comfort of his own home and traveling alone with a strange, abrasive woman. You’ll take what you can get.

“‘Fine.” A beat. Then, hesitantly, “...You?”

Eyeing the speck of dirt that clings persistently to one of his eyelashes, you stifle a yawn. “I’m a little tired myself. Care for a rest?”

Muriel scoffs darkly.  _ “She  _ won’t be happy about that.” He jerks his chin forwards to where Morga’s distant, sprinting form lingers just ahead of you.

“She’ll be less happy when we faint and fall right off our horses. Come on, we might as well ask.”

Morga  _ was  _ decidedly unhappy when you tried to slide down your steed to greet her and almost faceplanted into the mud, woozy with exhaustion and the sudden vertigo of switching between heights. With a sneer of contempt not even slightly concealed, she waved you away to an inn not far with instructions to group back together at sunrise.

At that point, the both of you were so haggard that it was all you could do to agree with whatever she demanded and stagger off towards the promised lodging.

By the time you make it there, you’re on foot, the horses themselves too worn to carry on any further. It’s probably bad form to stable your animals in a place you haven’t paid the fare for yet, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Muriel - much to his dismay, you’re sure - is  _ stumbling  _ over his boots as he tries to follow you through the front door; Inanna must guide him from behind using the wet peak of her nose, nudging him this way and that to avoid any sudden collisions.

He looks so tired, so worn down. With a pang of guilt, you remember that it was  _ you  _ who dragged him into this wild goose chase in the first place. It just as easily could have been Asra who accompanied you - and yet, for some inexplicable reason, you’d wanted Muriel. 

Something in the pit of your gut tells you that you’ve  _ always  _ wanted Muriel. The thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

The innkeeper is a small, strange man who would unsettle you much more if you weren’t so preoccupied with the prospect of getting real, actual sleep in a real, actual bed. Only one room being available seems to ruffle Muriel’s feathers to the point of shaking him awake a little bit; Inanna whuffs amusedly at his side.

“A-aren’t you going to open it,” he asks the floorboards as the two of you make it to the door of your lodging for the night. His mouth is doing that squiggly thing, again - the thing that makes you want to kiss him silly.

_ Wow, okay, not appropriate. Not at all. Empress alive, get it together.  _ “Here I go,” you mutter, jamming the key into the lock and praying he doesn’t catch sight of your burning cheeks. 

As far as bedrooms go, it’s not much to look at. Perhaps you’ve been spoiled by your stay in the royal castle. What  _ does  _ manage to catch your eye, however, is the single bed at the center of the room. 

“Oh, great,” you sigh, throwing your traveler’s case aside, already beginning to extricate yourself from your cloak, “we can share.”

“W-what!”

Well. You’ve never heard Muriel make  _ that  _ noise before.

A quick glance reveals his flushed face, flaming in all the glory of a man unfamiliar with the woes of playful flirting. You’re terrible. You’re awful. He is totally unprepared for your shameless affection for him and you are just  _ whaling  _ on him. “What? Would it be so bad to share with me?” You ask, grinning salaciously.

Muriel stalks over to the bed and grabs a pillow and the top sheet before settling down in the corner. “I’m sleeping on the floor!”

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

“I will…!”

He doesn’t sound very convinced. Inanna is less than impressed with him, if her disapproving snort is anything to go by. You can’t help but agree - you don’t recall seeing a bed in his hut. Is he used to sleeping on the floor? Asra had said the two of them go way back, having met on the docks as children…

Has he  _ ever  _ slept in a bed?

This thought is deeply disturbing to you. It startles you from your perch atop the scratchy sheets, propelling you almost unwillingly over to where Muriel’s got his pitiful set up just underneath the windowpane.

He looks up at you from his perch on the floor as you approach, gaze wary and guarded. You make sure to step slowly, palms up, toes out. 

“Muriel…”

You don’t know how to express the almost unearthly urge you feel to just  _ care  _ for him, wholly and completely. How is one meant to adequately communicate this? 

_ Hello, we’ve known each other for less than a fortnight. Do you mind if I suddenly fall all over myself in pursuit of your general comfort and happiness? Hello, you’re obviously not keen on overt displays of affection, so please allow me to wax poetic about everything I find endearing about you. Hello, I’m almost positive that you are in love with my best friend and mentor. Let me fall in love with you as well. Just to spice things up. _

“Let’s take a bath,” you say instead.

“A what.”

“A bath.”

“Us?”

“Yes, us.”

“...T-together?”

“If you’d like to, yes.”

Muriel’s eyes pop open so wide they threaten to fall right out of his skull. “Why would we do that.” It’s funny, almost (actually it’s more endearing than anything else) - the contrast between his deadpan and the disarray of literally every single one of his facial features.

“Because we’re both soiled,” you begin, taking one of his hands into your own and forcefully telling your heart to continue on beating when he doesn’t pull away, “we’re both tired,” your other hand comes to brush the matted hair out of his face until you’re able to see both of those piercing green eyes stare right back at you, “and a bath will remedy it.”

“No. I mean why...why do we have to it. Together.”

With the way he’s looking up at you - gaze shimmering with something too potent to be just the moonlight - there’s only one answer you can possibly find it within yourself to give him:

“We’re better together.”

“Oh.” He has absolutely no idea what to do with that. You don’t blame him.

_ Less than a fortnight. Less than a fortnight. _

“It’s your choice though, Muriel. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to, alright?”

To your surprise, he quickly shakes his head and begins to rise from his sitting position. “No, it’s...fine. Probably quicker this way, too.”

For his sake, you decide not to comment on the way his ears practically glow with how red they are. “Indeed.”

From there, it’s quick work to fill the provided basin with hot water - magic does come in handy sometimes, doesn’t it? It’s steaming with simmering heat, and you’d even thrown in some flowers for the big guy - just the ones you know he likes, of course. (There’s an abundance of forget-me-nots.)

With the tub set, water hot, and soap ready, there’s only one thing left to do. 

You raise your eyebrows at him as if to ask  _ is this still okay?  _ Your fingers hover over the corner of your soiled garments, itching to peel them off of you.

There is a split second of hesitation from him - so fleeting, so expertly disguised that if you hadn’t been paying attention, you would have missed it. Fortunately, your gaze is never not on Muriel, and you’re able to catch the way his eyes widen and drift away in second thought, how his body seizes up as though preparing for a strike, how his brow begins to gleam with perspiration.

You are  _ also  _ able to catch his chest heaving with a great, big sigh, muscles unclenching, jaw unlocking, stance loosening until he’s effectively worked himself down from whatever flustered high he’d been caught up in.

Muriel locks eyes with you. 

“Draw the screen,” you tell him, never breaking eye contact. Inanna is still in the room, and the last thing you’d want is for her to get any funny ideas about joining your very private (and sure to be already very cramped) bath time.

While he’s walking away to do as you’d told him, you take the liberty of shucking off articles of clothing as though they’ve offended you, tossing them in the very corner, neither to be seen nor heard until morning. By the time you’ve stripped down to your undergarments, Muriel has just turned around towards you.

And then immediately pivots back the other way.

You don’t even have to see his face. Even if he weren’t breathing erratically, even if you couldn’t see his shoulders visibly quaking, even if you couldn’t see the brilliant, angry red cresting along the backs of his neck and ears, you are a  _ magician;  _ it is within your magical nature to reach out and feel the auras of those around you. And right now, Muriel’s is a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, and...desire?

The wooden floor underfoot is cold and poorly-swept. It pains you to stand with your bare feet any longer. “Do you want me to get in first, Muriel?”

“No,” he says gruffly, averting his gaze. “Can you...turn around.”

You immediately agree and situate yourself so that you are facing the farthest corner of the sectioned-off bathroom. The sound of rustling fabrics and clinking belts only serves to taunt you; what sight must lie in wait behind you? You can only fantasize, as you’ve learned to master the art of these past couple days traveling alongside one of the most attractive, most alluring, most intriguing men you’ve ever had the displeasure of growing hot over.

To your distant right, the telltale rippling of water echoes far too loudly. It’s quiet. You shift your weight from one foot to another, the wood chilling you right to the bone. Still, you refuse to push; not until he’s ready.

A few more minutes pass of water-sloshing and laborious grunting before you hear it; quiet, rumbling, intimate:

“...You can turn back around now. If you want.”

_ You can handle this. It’s just Muriel.  _

You repeat this in your head thrice more for good measure and then spin on your heel.

The bath is clearly undercut for Muriel’s size. He’s submerged up to his lowest rib, and everything above that point is…

Bare. Oh, Gods above. He’s naked. Fuck.

Somewhere along the way, your brain had failed to grasp the concept that Muriel would actually be  _ nude  _ and you two would be sharing a small, contained space together.

Okay, okay, keep your cool. Don’t stare or he’s going to get self-conscious (well...more than he obviously already is.) You keep it moving as though unfazed, even if all you really want to do is let your knees give out.

“You mind if I get in?”

Wordlessly, he nods. You take comfort in the fact that he must be blushing as hard if not harder than you are.

Maneuvering yourself proves to be a bit of a task; the basin isn’t all that big to begin with, and to lower yourself into the steaming water without even slightly brushing up against Muriel would be impossible. You know this, you’re sure that he knows this, and yet the both of you jump at the first slipping of skin. 

“Ah, sorry!” 

You startle back towards the other end of the basin before realizing that the hard edge digging into your spine  _ is  _ the other end of the basin. The sudden momentum of your movement threatens to topple you right over the rim of the thing, and it would have, had two sturdy hands gripped your own and pulled you back into balance.

As soon as you’re finally settled in the water, Muriel releases his hold on you as though he’s been burned. A heavy crease sits between his brows, one you wish that you could smooth away with the gentle pad of your thumb. He’s making ‘that’ face at you - the one where he looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know just how to yet.

That’s alright. You have an unending wealth of patience for the man in front of you. You elect to hold your tongue and observe him quietly, giving him time to work out what exactly it is he means to tell you.

Just when you’re starting to think something may be wrong, he finally speaks. “You’re nervous,” he murmurs. His mouth is downturned in a sad little slant. “I...I’m sorry if I scared you…”

Your chest constricts so swiftly, so severely, that the sound of it  _ must  _ be audible. 

“Muriel, no.” Moving slowly and deliberately so he has time to see what you’re doing, you lay a hand over his own, larger one. “You didn’t scare me. You never have.”

A dark look flickers over his face like a shadow passing through light. For one horrible, awful moment, you’re sure he’s going to argue with you like he’s done every other time you attempt to reassure him that he is anything  _ but  _ a risk to those around him.

But it clears; his brows relax, his mouth untwists itself from its pained contortion, his eyes flutter shut and he nods to himself. 

“Okay.”

Internally, you glow with pride at his progress. There’d been a time where he would have immediately protested any challenging of his own long-held self-deprecation. Even with Asra, you notice that he’s still very much stubborn. The fact that he’s accepted your assurance as truth speaks volumes not only to his personal growth, but to the developing nature of your relationship, as well.

All of this washes over you in a wave so warm, so full of comfort and contentedness, that you allow yourself to beam brightly at him. “Want me to get your back for you?”

“Get my...oh.  _ Oh.”  _ His mouth is doing the squiggly thing again - the thing that makes you want to lean in and kiss it right off of his face. “...If you want to.”

“I do! Do you mind, um? Turning around?”

He complies wordlessly and only looks mildly awkward trying to clamber around in the woefully undersized basin. A little water sloshes over the side, and it almost takes a forget-me-not with it before Muriel snags the tiny blue blossom and cradles it in the heart of his palm. 

You are faced with the expanse of his back. Your first thought is:  _ there should be some kind of law against having that much beef. _

Your second is that his constant dawning of furs and cloaks makes sense.

A majority of his back is marred and mottled with an assortment of different scars - more than what litters his front. The skin is raised in some places, puckered in other; some of the wounds look like long cuts of a blade, others the off-putting satiny texture of a burn. Your gaze zeroes in on a particularly painful-looking abrasion running parallel to his spine and you must ground yourself.

As much as it hurts you to see him like this, you know that it more than pains him: it is trauma. And he’s forced to confront it every time he looks into a mirror.

No words would be appropriate and you doubt he wants you to comment at all on what you see. 

This will not stop you from still communicating your affection.

Slowly, with all the care and reverence and adoration and  _ love  _ you feel for the man before you, you begin to work the warm, scented water into his back; it soothes him almost immediately, your touch. Stubborn knots melt away under the kneading of your thumb, tendons strung taught loosening and relax as you caress them. 

You get so caught up in pampering him that you forget yourself. Magic flows unrestrained from the base of your palms and onto his shoulders, spilling beneath his skin and down into his muscles, easing his tension and soreness from the inside out. You don’t even realize that your magic is active until a sudden, unrestrained moan pierces the air.

It takes you a moment to realize that it hadn’t come from you.

Muriel isn’t even facing towards you and you know he’s steaming, much like the water he sinks down into impossibly further. 

“Muriel…? Are you alright?”

“.......Yes.”

“Do you. Um. Do you want me to stop?”

One beat. Two. Three.

“.........No.”

And then,

“It feels...good.”

That is a spear straight to your gut, piercing through any defenses you could have ever possibly constructed. It’s not fair, you think, how easily he disarms you, how oblivious he is to the fact that it only takes three words for him to tilt your world on its already wobbling axis.

You’re afraid to speak too loudly lest you break the mood of the moment, terrified to spook him, so you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers back, barely louder than the shuddering inhalation he takes when you place your hands back on him.

Your hands work on his shoulders for a bit longer before they drift down further, just underneath the edge of the collar. You ask him if this is okay and all you get is a surprisingly enthusiastic nod in response. The hair at the top of his chest is thick and voluminous and you make sure to lather the scented water there.

It’s only a matter of time before you reach the real meat of his chest - at this point, he’s completely relaxed, the back of his head against your shoulder, eyes closed and mouth slack as healing magic leaps from your fingers and dances across his skin. You rub firmly at his pectorals and he swallows hard.

Never before has he been this unguarded around you. Fuck, it puts into perspective just how much you want this every day...not just when the two of you are in desperate need of comfort after an exhaustingly long journey, but any time; all the time; whenever he feels like he needs your touch, he comes to you for it. 

An odd raised piece of skin brushes against the pad of your thumb. Ten very heavy seconds pass before you realize that was his nipple.

When you look down, Muriel is already looking back up at you, eyes wide, face red and perspiring. You repeat the motion of your thumb. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth.

All rational thought has shut down. The only thing you’re capable of registering is the way his lids droop, the way his brows draw up in pleasure, the way he visibly has to hold back any noises as you pass across his nipple over, and over, and over.

“Muri,” you breathe, “Is this alright?”

His eyes shut as though he can’t bear to look at you as he responds. 

“Please.” 

Mouth trembling, breaths coming in shallow pants, fingers twitching underneath the water - the picture of debauched. 

“Of course.” Your throat is so dry the words come out as a croak.

You bring up your free hand to the other side of his chest and take both nipples, now, between your thumb and forefinger. His skin - however rough and worn it may be - still feels like everything you’ve ever fantasized about. Empress alive, nothing could have ever prepared you for the way each little rub, flick, or pinch gets an immediate reaction. It’s like he’s hyper-attuned to your every touch.

And that’s saying something, considering you’re caressing him with the lightest of pressures you can manage.

You wonder if…

_ Oh no. No. Don’t go down that road. _

But now you can’t help it - to wonder how his face would twist and his body would jerk underneath harsher ministrations. 

What if you just…

Slowly, moving so sluggishly that he’s able to shake you off if need be, you close a thumb and forefinger around his left nipple.

And then, you squeeze.

All the breath in his lungs leaves in one big rush of air.

Once again, you ask for his consent. Once again, he gives it to you.

Never in a thousand years did you think you’d be allowed to fondle Muriel’s chest, let alone in a setting  _ outside  _ one of your fantasies. And yet here you are, staring into those piercing green eyes as you twist his nipples and watch his lashes flutter.

He’s red all the way down his rib cage, which the latter half of disappears below the water. What else awaits down there, you wonder.

The heat of the situation is getting to you; you’ve got to nip this in the bud before either of you get too excited.

_ Before this gets too real,  _ a nasty little voice whispers.

“Hey,” you say gently, one hand moving up to cup the stubbly underside of his jaw, “you ready to get out?”

The look he gives you almost makes you think - just for the briefest of seconds - that he’s going to protest and tell you that he wants to stay right where he is, nestled into the crook of your shoulder, bracketed by your legs, and shivering under your touch.

“Y-yes. We should.”

And so you do. It’s a quick and efficient affair, blanketed with only the barest layer of awkwardness, and over just as quickly as it began. Pretty soon, the both of you are in your respective beds - yours on the mattress provided and his on the ground; you would have insisted he take the bed, but you think he needs some time to himself after what had just transpired. However much the thought makes your heart ache, that bath was probably the first time in a long time that he’d been that close to someone. 

As you drift off, nose-deep in Inanna’s thick coat, you dream of soft green scarves and the scent of myrrh.

(When you are awakened just a few hours later by the sound of rustling sheets and distressed whimpers, it feels almost natural to approach. To coax. To comfort.

To love.)

  
  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 'as always, thank you for reading<3 ^__^  
> my tumblr is [@myrrheart](https://myrrheart.tumblr.com) and i take headcanon requests and prompts!  
> [i also started a muri ask blog! the inbox is now open!](https://outofmyhut.tumblr.com)


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